


Adult.

by kurek (orphan_account)



Category: Original Work
Genre: also i portray a lot of intrusive thoughts so if ur not comfy with that i wont judge, dont read if ur sensitive to very graphic depictions of violence, it's a vent work, so yeah all that comes with the name
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:54:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21856402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/kurek
Summary: Basically just a vent work, talking about some of my own experiences through the most batshit bullshit lens possible





	Adult.

An Adult wakes in His house at five thirty AM, September 18th in a manner that one could only describe as furious. He is not accustomed to this early rise, and it makes Him furious. He finds little joy in what others tell Him are the pleasures of life. He checks the clock, hoping to have a few extra minutes of respite, but it is shown that He has slept until the precise moment He needed to wake. A soft knock at His door, and a light flashing through His window. It must be His neighbors, returning home at the same time they always do. He quickly opens His window and vomits into the bushes.

A list of names and a hollow shell in a chair. Sweat pouring down the hands and neck and back and scalp and legs and arms and a soul rended apart by crushing metal and shame and pressure pushing dow-thoughts and a train are sent screaming into a station that He would never imagine. “>gÑ¾þäµšÒòïy�J×ÿ§ú¹ÿEä•Ñß==òÒëÏ©‚idbÔA³“¨÷|f×ZªŠBA û”? That’s impossible! He… hadn’t seen anyone before. Anyone in his life. The pressure and shame and metal are not an illusion but a pressure to be beared possibly with another. But He cannot. He is not ready. He excuses himself and vomits in the Adult’s room.

An Adult wakes in His house at five thirty AM, April 14th in a manner that one could only describe as furious. He is accustomed to this early rise, but it makes Him furious nonetheless. He finds little joy in what others tell Him are the pleasures of life. He checks the clock, hoping to have a few extra minutes of respite, but it is shown that He has slept until the precise moment He needed to wake. A soft knock at His door, and a light flashing through His window. It must be His neighbors, returning home at the same time they always do. He quickly opens His window and vomits into the bushes.

His feet hit the concrete as He waves goodbye. Rebellion is hard. He is dressed in a simple jacket over a collar, strangling, choking his neck. He cannot breathe, but nobody seems to care. Others insist that having His collar too tight is unhealthy! But it can not be helped. No matter what collar He wears, it seems to always strangle Him. He insists that the collar is the problem, but none shall listen. They say to Him, choking is an essential part of being an Adult. Better to prepare to be choked now than be unaccustomed to choking when he becomes an Adult. Of course, their words are hollow. Their meanings are always surface level. They do not know. His tears fall on the cold brick, passing through the yellow leaves. Yellow is a disgusting colour to Him. It represents all that are dead, all that are killed by the heat of the day. All that surround Him every day of his life. Trapped by yellow, trapped by dead. How He wishes desperately to tear the dead from the living but they say to him! Death is essential to being an Adult, just like strangulation. Just like a knife to His throat. Just like being stuck among other Adults. Just like shaving the skin off His legs, leaving only the hair left. Just like tearing through His lip with his vicious sharp teeth, not shared by Adults. Clawing at His face with His claws, iron through His eye sockets. Shaving His organs out of His body. Puking in the Adult toilets. Claws decorated with the only will He can muster. Twitching on wood. Claws tearing thorough his throught. Claws tearing apart His eyelids. Claws scarring on the bare flesh of His legs. Claws piercing His temples in a desperate attempt to tear the collar from His throat. A knife to His fingers. A knife to His ribs, His ears, His stomach, Claws piercing His heart.

An ??? wakes in ??? apartment at five thirty AM, April 14th in a manner that one could only describe as furious. ??? is accustomed to this early rise, but it makes ??? furious nonetheless. He finds little joy in what others tell ??? are the pleasures of life. ??? checks the clock, hoping to have a few extra minutes of respite, but it is shown that ??? has slept until the precise moment ??? needed to wake. A soft knock at ??? door, and a light flashing through ??? window. It must be ??? neighbors, returning home at the same time they always do. ??? quickly opens ??? window and vomits into the bushes. And remembers. 

Remembers a dream Remembers a wish Remembers a walk A subtle grey texture, a length A confidence Cannot know why It’s obvious, of course, but cannot know Cannot acknowledge Acknowledgement would mean death It would mean suicide, and not the fun kind It would mean claws tearing at flesh piercing through skin and bone and through organs and veins tearing apart to show the bare essence underneath What many have seen but is not allowed to see Blinded by society and a life without acknowledgement a sin a travesty a loss a death a murder a taking a kidnapping a flight for freedom but Icarus cannot reach the sun on wings of wax others may reinforce but has convinced it is impossible Wax melts after long enough but does knot now what Their hands are made of what They may reinforce wings with for Wings may only last for so long does knot now if flesh and wax and metal may meld together or if it is even possible but a voice inside and perhaps voices outside may scream that it is possible and life may go on. She does not know this. If only she could see what I have become. If only she could see the love in my heart the love on my skin the fingernails and sweaters and skirts and hair and fabric and love. Love. God, the love. Struggles will come but they are planetarily easier to bear. They are absolutely trivial and insignificant in the face of my resplendor.


End file.
